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Of course, there’s nothing of interest or great importance on his laptop other than a few digital photos, a spreadsheet of his monthly bills, which he pays on time, and lots of music and movies. I check his email, and there are no clingy women messaging him, begging for his heart or his dick.
Strange. I guess he’s been telling the truth about his sex life.
That’s as refreshing as it is frustrating.
But still, my curiosity refuses to let up, and I have no choice but to dig deeper. Since Preacher’s laptop offers no information, I bust out mine and do some real digging.
I go back and look into the transfers I made on Frank’s behalf, the ones from the church to those offshore accounts. I smile because just a few clicks later, those accounts sit at zero and Preacher’s accounts are much, much fatter.
He’ll probably be pissed off when he finds out, but I’ll likely be long gone by then. Nothing but a distant memory, which gives me the courage to keep digging.
But you know what they say about looking into shit when you don’t really want answers? You will inevitably find exactly the thing you hope not to find.
There’s plenty of dark web info on the Reckless Souls, much of it regarding sales of firearms, counterfeit designer stuff, and even creative ways they find to ship certain things.
It turns out these guys are a really big deal. Most of it is what I expect to find after all the digging I did into the Iron Kings MC, but the one thing that does surprise me is just how little involvement these guys have in really bad shit.
Or so I think.
An hour into my digging, at least I think an hour’s gone by, I find some shit that makes the wine curdle in my stomach. The guys wearing Reckless Souls gear might pretend to be good guys on the surface, but dig a little, and they are no different from the Iron Kings or any other group that makes a buck from buying and selling humans.
Human. Fucking. Trafficking.
Unreal.
My stomach churns as I see sale after sale of women and children from all over the United States, Mexico, and even Canada.
They. Sell. People.
The knowledge of this hits me with a wave so strong and so powerful I stand up and run to the bathroom to empty all the wine and whatever is left of the ham and cheese sandwich from earlier. All of it ends up in the bottom of Preacher’s toilet just as the front door opens.
“Gia! You still here?”
I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth with the sound of Preacher’s heavy motorcycle boots sounding on the hardwood floors. I step out of the downstairs bathroom just as he turns the corner and glare at him.
“I’m still here for now, but I won’t be for long, you fucking rat bastard.”
Inside my chest, my heart is full-on galloping. I’m nervous to the point my hands are shaking because I am angry and disgusted, and honestly, I feel like a fucking fool all over again.
Maybe I’m not as good a judge of character as I think I am.
Preacher sighs in that patient way of his that, at this moment, aggravates the fuck out of me.
“What did I do to make you upset while I was gone, Gia?”
I let out a loud, harsh bark of laughter and shake my head. “Yeah, go ahead and gaslight me. Make me think that I’m the one with the issue.”
“Right now, it seems like you are the one with the issue.”
Oh, that deadly calm pisses me off even more. “I know, Preach. I know what you and your brothers are into. Don’t even pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He sighs, and in that moment, he looks tired. “Gia, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Be specific or be quiet.”
Damn, I hate that deep, commanding tone because it turns me on. My nipples go hard almost instantly, and my body shakes at the dark, slightly annoyed look he sends me.
“Trafficking, Preacher. That’s what the fuck I’m talking about. Human. Trafficking.”
Just saying the words makes me sick to my stomach and instantly, my arousal fades into righteous anger.
